[theme music] ♪ ♪ ♪ EVENT ANNOUNCER: And they're all safely over the first.

They settle down to race towards fence number two.

Atlantic Hero shows just in front of Queen Titian, Jumping the Midsummer Night's Dream comes next, then Cash Point, and Old Ironside coming now into fence number two with Atlantic Hero the leader, just in front of Queen Titian, and then Rising Damp.

And then after these comes Potato Peeler, Cash Point, and Old Ironside.

And racing now around the turn towards the far side of the course, where Queen Titian has taken up the running from Cash Point and Rising Damp.

And then after these, Atlantic Hero's in fourth, coming now to fence number seven.

And Queen Titian is still showing just in front.

But after these, Cash Point, and then Old Ironside and Atlantic Hero.

Come on, Atlantic Hero, get a move on!

Atlantic Hero!

No earthly animal can hear you, Hilda!

[thundering hoof beats] EVENT ANNOUNCER: Midsummer Night's Dream fell down.

They go now to the last, Queen Titian with Atlantic Hero.

Atlantic Hero comes to take up the running.

And Tri-Support's fallen there with Maurice Fishbourne.

They've got 150 yards to go, and it's an Atlantic Hero has taken it up.

He's got two lengths clear.

Cash Point and Old Ironside come next.

Queen Titian's faded into fourth.

In the last 50 yards, it's Atlantic Hero.

He's under pressure.

Atlantic Hero!

Atlantic Hero!

EVENT ANNOUNCER: And going to the line, it's Atlantic Hero from Cash Point and Old Ironside.

And then after these comes Queen Titian.

We've got to go and collect my winnings.

Well, congratulations.

What do you have on it, a quid each way?

I'll be able to retire to Bermuda.

EVENT ANNOUNCER: First, number 13, Atlantic Hero ridden by the honorable Jonathan Postern.

Second, number 8, Cash Point.

And at third, number 4, Old Ironside.

I'm so sorry that Phyllida wasn't able to be with us today.

Yeah, Philly's got this long fraud up in Leeds.

Yes.

She's working all the weekend.

She would so much have enjoyed it.

Of course, Rumpole has really no sporting interest.

I've often wondered why sporting interests have to be held in leaking wellies and cold mud.

What do you fancy for the 3 o'clock, Henry?

Well, his clerk tells me that Mr. Lorimer is not all that fit.

He's been overworking on his revenue cases.

Likely to fall at the first fence, is he?

Harley Waters QC-- in good condition, is he?

Been taking his oats and all that?

Yeah, rather too liberally, according to his clerk.

No, the fancy is Mr. E. Smith on Decree Absolute.

Oh, in good form, you think?

Teetotalers, clerk informs me, and he does press-ups in chambers.

Quickly, Uncle Tom!

I won.

Oh, really, Mrs. Rumpole?

I didn't know you were running.

[laughs] EVENT ANNOUNCER: Will the course doctor please come to the Declarations Office?

The course doctor, please, to the Declarations Office.

This-- this one is on me, you know.

Hilda's in the chair.

Erskine-Brown?

Judge.

There you are, Rumpole.

I haven't heard you before me lately.

I suppose you don't get any of the serious crimes these days.

Oh, I've been occupied elsewhere.

I must join my wife.

She's spending the winnings.

Oh, been having a little flutter here, have you?

I don't see you as a gambling man, exactly.

I suppose a lifetime spent in Old Bailey trials gives one a taste for games of chance.

What's that supposed to mean?

Well, don't you sometimes feel that trying to assess the outcome of a case is rather like sticking a pin in the sporting light with your eyes shut?

The aim of an English criminal trial is to do justice.

I don't see how you can possibly compare it to a horse race.

Good day, Erskine-Brown.

Good day to you, sir.

Rumpole, Twyburne's our oldest judge.

Yes, I know, I know.

The point it's so long ago, they can't get rid of him.

He's one of the last survivors that ever sentenced people to death.

They say he used to order muffins at his club on those occasions.

[happy chatter] Come on, sweetheart!

Fill this cherry up with champers, huh?

A loving cup-- Johnny, how excessively brill!

[happy chatter] One small rum, Hilda?

Is that the extent of our celebration?

I thought you were gonna fill my wellies with champers.

Well, cheers, Mrs. Rumpole.

Thank you.

Thank you, Mrs. Rumpole.

Oh, Mrs. Rumpole!

How are you, Erskine-Brown?

Oh, all right, I suppose, Fiona.

You're in uniform, too.

All these khaki-clad figures slogging through the mud reminds me of the retreat from Mons.

You were never at Mons.

Rumpole was in the RAF ground staff, weren't you?

All right, puts me in mind of the NAAFI, the RAF Uxbridge after every night.

Well, who's for another?

[laughter, chatter] Hello, Pimsy.

Oh, hi, Sprod!

Disgusting to see you.

Loathsome to see you.

You two obviously know each other.

This is my big sister, Jennifer Postern.

This is Rumpole, Mrs. Rumpole.

Oh, how riveting!

I've heard so much about you.

Pimsy says you got her into chambers by some miracle.

It was one of my trickier cases, yes.

Pimsy says you win them all because you're the most super barrister in the whole of England-- absolutely brill, says Pimsy.

Daddy always came to the bar races.

But it took me weeks to persuade Rumpole to accept Claude Erskine-Brown's wonderful invitation.

Did you come on your own, Fiona?

No, with my boyfriend, Jeremy Jowling.

He's rather dull, but he is a solicitor.

He's the one doing the serious drinking.

[laughter, chatter] Oh, look.

[gasps] There's my gorgeous winner!

I say, your wife, is she really the one you call she who must-- - No, she's the one I call-- Hilda!

Rumpole.

That's the chap who won for me on Atlantic Hero.

Oh, yeah?

MAN 1: Beautiful.

MAN 2: Well done.

Kiss for the winner, Johno.

MAN 1: There we are.

MAN 3: Oh, well done.

He's such a nice looking young man.

Do you know him?

- He's my husband.

Oh, really?

I do think I ought to thank him personally.

Well, come on, then.

Why don't we whizz over?

Oh!

Oh, I-- I say, I must just say, well done.

It does make a day at the races so much more thrilling when you're on a winner.

Were you?

I can't say I saw you.

[laughter] Oh, these amazing old wrinklies.

This is Mr. and Mrs. Rumpole, Johno, and Claude Erskine-Brown.

Mr. Rumpole is a tremendous legal eagle.

JOHNO: Oh, my God, you're not one of the galloping barristers.

- Oh, hardly.

None of your lot got place-- terribly bad luck.

Care for a swig?

Thank you.

[chuckles] Well done.

Thank you very much.

Fish face!

He's counting us dead.

Come on, Fish, don't be weedy.

Good afternoon, Mr.

Fish.

This is Maurice Fishbourne, lives next door to Jennifer and Johno.

Delighted to meet you.

I say, Fish, how did you manage to stick on till the last fence-- Superglue?

Superglue!

[guffaws] He was hanging onto the mane, I saw him.

Congratulations, Jonathan.

Oh, isn't he a lovely loser?

I say, Fish, if you want to ride something in the next race, why not try a bicycle?

A bicycle!

[guffaws] I am not riding in the next race.

Oh, is mummy taking you home to tea?

I'm driving mother home, yes, Jennifer.

Oh, come on, Fishy.

Have a gulp of champers.

It's quite all right.

It's only got all our germs in it.

[laughter] Thanks.

Whoa!

[laughter] Lodge for sale on gentleman's estate in wooded country near Chester.

Yes.

What's that you're reading, Hilda?

Country Life, of course.

Were there no Daily Telegraphs?

Three bedrooms, two receps with access to good rough shooting.

Oh, I rather think Doesn't it sound attractive, Rumpole?

I rather think I've got worries enough without you taking up rough shooting.

What did you say?

I said, it might be safer in Tooting or around the inner London sessions.

I mean, in those places, one can go for a walk without running the risk of getting a charge of grapeshot or whatever it is in your britches.

Nonsense, Rumpole.

That day at the bar races made me realize what we are missing.

Mud?

The countryside!

RUMPOLE: Oh.

Now then, if we sold our lease here-- Oh, yes.

We could buy a deer park and a Palladian mansion.

Daddy always used to say that what a successful barrister really needed was a place in the country.

Was he speaking from the stately, semi-detached at 13 Acacia Avenue, Horsham at the time?

Can't you just see us, Rumpole?

Sitting by a log fire, taking a glass of sherry, perhaps, while the sun sinks over the home wood.

Hilda, I can see us with the boiler gone out and all the London trains canceled, up to our elbows in snow and mud.

And out in the home wood, somebody's bound to be killing something.

(SIGHING) Oh.

[birds chirping] [gunshot] [quacking] [gunshot] [quacking] (YELLING) Help!

[quacking] What happened?

I shot him.

It was an accident.

Now, I really would rather not, Fiona, but I'll put your sister on to a good man.

Rumpole, Sprod wants you to defend her.

Well, that's probably because you've given your sister a quite exaggerated idea of my abilities.

Oh, is it really possible to exaggerate your abilities?

No, probably not.

Well, why shouldn't my sister have the best possible counsel available?

No friends, Fiona.

FIONA: What?

- It's a rule at the bar.

Never appear for friends.

You care too much.

Your judgment gets warped.

You can't see the weaknesses in your own case.

And of course, if you lose, they never, ever forgive you.

But my sister is not your friend.

You only met her the once.

Quite honestly, you hardly know her.

I know you, though.

All the trouble I had getting you into these chambers-- by some pretty ruthless maneuvering, if you want to know the truth.

And then, to have to spend the rest of my life avoiding your eye in the clerk's room, too afraid to pop into Pomeroy's for a strengthener in case you're there, looking at me more in sorrow than in anger because I lost your sister's case?

No, thank you.

Life would be quite intolerable.

I do understand that.

But-- But me no buts, Fiona.

I was only going to say, but you aren't going to lose it, are you?

(SIGHING) Oh.

Horace Rumpole?

Uh, yes.

Ah, splendid.

Why don't you bring your stuff in here?

- Thank you.

- Nice to meet you.

Jowling-- Jeremy Jowling.

Yes, how do you do?

I was helping in the Postern case.

Yes.

Now, please hop in.

Uh-- Oh, don't mind, Agatha.

She's a soppy old date, really.

[chuckles] There's a good girl.

Now then, where would you like to go?

Chester Arms or the prison?

Well, which is the least uncomfortable?

I would say the prison, in a pinch.

Oh?

Run you there, shall I?

It's a little way out of town.

- Thank you.

- Belt up.

Pardon?

Oh, yes.

Well, I must say, this is all a GMBU.

[engine revs] RUMPOLE: GMBU?

Grand Military Balls-Up!

Been a year since we had a murder in the Chester hunt, you know?

Yes.

Well, Agatha, do sit down.

Stop kissing Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, she's fine.

Well, it'll get all those damn blood sports protesters going, you know?

You've got a partner, have you?

Yeah, jolly.

Agatha, leave Mr. Rumpole alone, will you?

No, no!

No, she's fine, she's fine.

Yes, it's Jowling and Leonard, actually.

Yes.

It's my father's firm, quite honestly.

Ah.

But he doesn't like murder cases, so he's handed this one on to me.

Do-- Agatha, will you sit down?

Stop kissing Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, she's fine.

Well, you know what they say.

You have to start at the bottom.

Oh, (CHUCKLING) yeah.

Did you-- did you know Jonathan Postern well?

No, only very briefly, I'm afraid.

Oh.

You know, people round here had a tremendous lot of time with Johnny.

Oh, really?

I'm sorry.

Well-- Well, it's the last thing the defense needs in a murder case-- a well-liked corpse.

Ah.

Well, of course, you'd-- you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?

Well, there's only one trouble with Johno Postern-- bad case of the MTFs.

The, uh-- MTFs-- Must Touch Flesh.

Ah.

Particularly the flesh of Debbie Pavier.

Oh, yeah?

Oh, dear, dear, dear.

[laughs] Well, that was what all the row was about, wasn't it?

Was it?

Well, if it hadn't been for that, the local gendarmes might have accepted Sprod's story about an accident, no questions asked.

Really?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): In London, we hardly ever see death-- once or twice in a lifetime.

An old age pensioner perhaps collapsed on a cold night in the tube, or a shape under a blanket in a small crowd as we drive past an accident.

In this peaceful landscape, they see it every day.

They watch hounds tearing foxes to pieces or coarse hares.

They hang up magpies and jays in the wood as a warning to others.

I'll lay a small wager that at the end of that garden, there's some retired naval man tearfully putting down his dog.

No doubt about it, death is a routine event in the country.

Well, what's a husband, more or less, than a shooting season?

And that would be the basis for the defense.

It was an accident.

Yeah.

Your housekeeper, Mrs, um-- Mrs. Hempe.

Mrs. Hempe, yes-- she said you were quarreling that afternoon.

Bit of a hangover after a serious evening.

Do you remember saying something about killing?

Isn't it the sort of thing one says?

Oh, is it?

Well, don't you quarrel sometimes with she who must be obeyed?

Happily, neither of us have a shotgun.

After the quarrel, your husband went out.

He wanted to walk, I suppose, to cool off.

And so did you.

Yes.

But you took your 20 bore with you.

You know something about guns.

Why do you do that?

I thought it might calm my nerves if I shot something.

Not the most tactful way of explaining your feelings to a jury.

No, I think we might-- I meant rough shooting-- a pigeon, perhaps, or a rabbit or something of that sort.

Was your gun loaded when you met your husband?

Of course.

I put up a pheasant.

I was about to have a shot when I remembered it was after February, closed season for pheasants.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): But not for husbands.

I must have forgotten to put the safety catch on.

I walked on a little.

Yes, go on.

I told Jeremy.

Tell me.

I saw Johno coming towards me.

Was he still angry?

No.

No, I don't think so.

He seemed perfectly calm, actually.

What about you?

Oh, I was calm enough.

I walked towards him.

It was rough, you know, brambles-- it needed clearing.

I must have tripped.

Well, that's how it happened.

I don't suppose you happen to have a small cigar about you?

No, I-- I've left them in your car.

Hold on.

I suppose Agatha is guarding them with her fangs bared.

I'll whizz out and get them.

Oh, thank you.

Back in a jiff.

He's one of your lot, isn't he?

Jeremy?

We know his father, of course.

Of course.

I'm not one of your lot, Mrs. Postern.

Unlike Jeremy, I don't drive around the country with a weapon and a hound of the Baskervilles in the back of my car.

I'm not even familiar with your language, which seems to me to have been designed with the express purpose of saying absolutely nothing.

I have descended among you like a creature from outer space.

You may talk to me as to a complete stranger.

What do you want me to say?

Anything you think I should know.

I've told you, it was an accident.

So I walk.

I stumble, bang.

It's possible, I suppose.

But it's much more likely I would have blown your feet off.

Never, never let your gun pointed be at anyone.

That it should unloaded be matters not the least to me.

Come again?

You don't know that?

No, we must have learnt different nursery rhymes.

Well, Jennifer Postern would have known it, though, wouldn't she?

She learnt her gun training, I should think, at her nanny's knee.

Oh, rather, yes.

Her father was a terrific shot, you know.

- Oh?

- Yeah, runs in the family.

What are you looking at?

Oh, the scene of the crime, the locus in quo.

What do you do now, crawl around on your hands and knees, collecting old bits of cigarette ash in an envelope?

Not exactly.

This locus in quo looks exactly like any other bit of the English countryside to me.

Where does this lead to, more Postern country?

Fishbourne country, actually.

Who?

Maurice Fishbourne, dreadful weed with a good deal of money.

Gets ragged a lot for trying to ride a point to point.

Invariably hits the deck.

Fish Face.

Now, of course, you met him.

Yeah, a friend of the Posterns.

What?

(LAUGHING) They can't stand him!

Really?

Well, no one can, actually.

He's not exactly PLU.

People Like Us?

Hmm.

Well, he puts up all those poncy notice boards all over his land, gets his cash from laxatives.

Oh.

Fishbournes keep you regular.

I'll rely on the old medicinal claret.

Ah.

Hello?

Is someone in pain?

Oh, no, not at all.

That is a cry of pure randiness.

Look, I'll show you.

It's a calling bird, a caged cock pheasant.

A calling pheasant in a cage puts all heaven in a rage.

Yes.

Well, anyway, the old devil that lives here keeps it to entice all the Postern lady pheasants into the garden, you see?

Of course, when they get there, he just knocks them off from the front window.

Cunning, isn't it?

The wanton boy that kills the flies shall earn the spider's enmity.

Didn't Jonathan Postern know he was being robbed?

Well, yes, I suppose he-- he just let it go on.

Old Johno was a bit of an innocent, in spite of everything.

Anyhow, he couldn't have got Figgis out of the cottage.

He's a protected tenant.

- Did you say Figgis?

Mm.

I bet he's in there.

Do you want to talk to him?

What, talk to a prosecution witness?

Oh, dear me, no, no, no.

Definitely NSOB.

NSOB?

Not Sporting, Old Bean.

Pathology department.

Yes, Professor Ackerman, please.

Thank you.

Hello, old sweetheart!

I hoped to catch you before you vanished into the morgue.

Oh, how'd you know it was me?

(LAUGHING) Yeah, fine, thank you.

Yes, I'm afraid I could do with some help.

No, it's not blood this time.

It's gunshot wounds.

No, not a handgun, a shotgun.

Yes.

Oh, small details.

Like, for example, the number of shots you'd say, what, a 20-gauge shotgun cartridge?

I see, 250 to 270.

Yes, come in!

Oh yes, indeed.

Yes!

No, I know the book very well, but I don't see how I can lay hands on a copy of it down here now.

Well, that would be splendid if you'd post me one.

Thank you.

I have to cross-examine the local pathologist.

Yes.

Well, thank you again.

Happy dissecting.

Yes, bye.

Good morning.

I've got the car outside.

Mm.

Is Agatha in it?

- Oh, rather.

I think I'll walk.

I see you've been working on it.

Most of the night.

I suppose you've seen that-- Dr. Overton's postmortem report in considerable detail.

Yes, I glanced at it.

He seems very sure of himself, our Dr. Overton.

Huh?

Rather too sure of himself for an experienced pathologist.

What do you know about him?

- Overton?

- Mm.

- I've never heard of him.

Oh?

Oh, Graverly usually does all the stiffs for the home office.

Oh, Graverly.

Yeah.

What are our chances?

Oh, as a sporting type, you want to know the odds, do you?

Any better than evens?

Well, it's not an easy case, but she's a woman.

I think she may have been mistreated by her husband.

All we need is a sympathetic judge.

Oh, well, we've drawn a board called Mr. Justice Twyburne.

What do you think?

I think the odds have just lengthened considerably.

Oh, what's he-- what's he like, then?

Do you remember Martin Muschamp?

Muschamp, no.

Ah, no, he'd be a bit before your time.

He went out with an armed gang.

He was tried for killing a policeman.

And a couple of years later, another lad confessed, and Muschamp was cleared by a home office inquiry.

Oh, well, that's all right, then.

Oh yes, lovely for everyone except Muschamp.

Twyburne had summed up dead against him, and he'd been hanged by the neck.

Oh, don't look so worried.

We don't do that sort of thing anymore.

And the Crown must prove it.

But at the end of the day, we feel you can be left in no possible doubt.

That is all I have to say in opening this sad case, members of the jury.

And now, with the assistance of my learned friend Mr. Gavin Pinker, I hope to fairly put the evidence before you.

You're causing me a great deal of pain, Mr. Harmsway.

I'm sorry, my Lord?

Please don't split them.

Don't split what, my Lord?

Your infinitives.

This is a distressing case in all conscience.

Do you have to add to the disagreeable nature of the proceedings the sound of you tormenting the English language?

You hope to put the evidence fairly.

Yes, my Lord.

Why don't you start to do so?

My learned friend Mr. Pinker will call the first witness.

I'll call Mrs. Marian Hempe.

Calling Mrs. Marian Hempe.

(QUIETLY) Charming.

Don't worry, old darling.

He's quite impartial.

He'll be just as beastly to me when my turn comes.

Mrs. Hempe, how long have you worked for the Posterns?

10 years now for Master Jonathan and his father before him.

On the afternoon that Jonathan Postern died, did you hear anything going on between him and his wife?

Yes, they were quarreling.

Could you hear any words?

I heard two words.

What were they?

"Kill you."

I heard that said, loud.

By her.

Then, I saw Mr. Postern go out.

He walked towards the woods.

PINKER: What happened then?

Mrs. Postern stayed indoors, then she went out.

PINKER: How long did she stay out?

Don't really know-- 10 minutes, quarter of an hour, perhaps.

Then, she came back and got it.

Got what?

Her shotgun.

Did you see her get the gun?

No, but I saw her go out again with it under her arm.

She went back towards the woods again.

What happened next?

Just tell the jury.

I heard a shot from the wood.

PINKER: From the direction in which they had both gone.

MRS. HEMPE: Yes.

Thank you, Mrs. Hempe.

You heard one shot?

MRS. HEMPE: No, I heard others.

Oh, you heard others?

When?

After Mr. Postern went out.

Oh, yes.

But after Mrs. Postern went out for the second time with her shotgun, how many shots did you hear then?

Just one.

You're quite sure of that?

It was enough, wasn't it?

Yes, perhaps.

Now, these words you heard her say, "kill you"-- you have sworn that they're the only words you heard Mrs. Postern say.

That's right.

She couldn't have said "I'll kill you," for instance?

MRS. HEMPE: No.

Well, she may have been warning her husband that someone else might kill him.

Might she not?

I suppose so.

But she was the only one there, wasn't she?

Exactly.

Are you suggesting someone else might have shot him, Mr. Rumpole?

Just exploring the possibilities, my Lord.

Mr. Figgis, when you first saw Mrs. Postern, what was she doing?

FIGGIS: Well, she were holding a shotgun, standing about 10 feet off him.

Eventually, you took the gun away from her and broke it open.

I did, yeah.

How many cartridges had been fired?

Just one.

Just one.

And the spent cartridge was ejected?

Yeah.

And did you then go with her back to her house, where she telephoned the police?

We did, yes.

And was her gun in your possession until the police arrived?

Oh, yes, yes.

Thank you, Mr. Figgis.

Mr. Figgis, when you first saw Mrs. Postern, what exactly did she say?

She said, I shot him.

It were an accident.

Oh?

She said, I shot him.

It was an accident.

Well, might she not have said, I shot him?

Mr. Rumpole, is there a dispute as to what the accused said?

No, no dispute as to what was said, my Lord.

But I am very interested in discovering where the emphasis was put.

As you may be interested in that, Mr. Rumpole, it remains to be seen in the fullness of time whether the point interests the jury.

I think the point may be of considerable importance, my Lord.

The words are there.

How they were said seems to be of unimportant insignificance.

Might it not be better to say of insignificance, my Lord?

What?

Unimportant insignificance might be a bit of a tautology, might it not?

Something of a torment to the English language.

Ask your question, Mr. Rumpole.

(WHISPERING) Thank you, sir.

Don't mention it.

Well, Mr. Figgis, what exactly did Mrs. Postern say?

She said, I shot him.

It were an accident.

I shot him.

Now, I wonder why she said it like that.

There was no one else about at the time, was there, who might have shot him?

Not as far as I could see.

Not as far as you could see.

Mr. Figgis, do you keep a calling pheasant?

I don't know what you mean.

I think you do-- a cock pheasant in a cage, whose cries attract the lady pheasants to your garden, where you conveniently dispatch them from a downstairs window.

As far as I can see, you must have had pheasant for breakfast, dinner, and tea.

[light chuckling] Well, I might have done a bit of that, yes.

Mr. Rumpole, this witness is not on trial for poaching.

Has this evidence the slightest relevance to the case?

No doubt the jury will let us know that, my Lord, in the fullness of time.

What had you been doing that afternoon?

I was in my cottage.

And doing a bit of shooting, as usual.

Might have been, yes.

And your garden is, what, some 10, 15 yards from the scene of the alleged crime?

Mr. Rumpole, may I remind you that your client has already admitted shooting her husband with a shotgun?

And shotgun wounds and pellets were found in her husband's body.

Your lordship may remind me of that, but I can assure your lordship I had not forgotten it.

Thank you, Mr. Figgis.

Thank you, Mr. Figgis.

No further questions.

Very well.

Members of the jury, this may be a convenient moment for you to take some refreshment.

Be back at 2:10, please.

Be upstanding.

Are you coming down to see Sprod?

No, I don't think so, Fiona.

Not until she decides to tell me what happened.

A message from the learned judge.

I'm under arrest.

On the contrary, sir, you're invited to lunch in the lodgings.

This case is full of surprises.

The car's outside.

We travel in robes, of course.

Yes, of course.

Lead me to the judicial Rolls.

Here you are at last, Rumpole.

He sat beside me in the cinema, said the girl in the indecency case, and put his hand up my skirt.

Very well, said the old recorder, with his eye on the clock at lunchtime.

I suggest we leave it there till 2:05.

[polite chuckle] Well, no more arguing about grammar this afternoon, hey, Rumpole?

Oh, possibly not.

Still, you stood up to me pretty well.

That's what we need in our job, determination to stick to an argument.

Even when it's a wrong one?

Well, mistakes can usually be put right.

Oh, surely not always, my Lord.

Oh.

You're thinking of the young fellow who went out on the robbery, case where they shot a policeman.

Martin Muschamp, yes.

Muschamp.

Yes, there was nothing else I could have done about that.

He summed up the evidence-- it was pretty damning, of course-- and left the matter to the jury.

All this argument about the death penalty, but we managed to take it in our stride, did our duty.

We didn't enjoy it, of course-- a lot of rubbish talked about judges eating muffins after the death sentence.

Well, you couldn't get muffins at the Army Navy Club.

All you could do was sum up and leave the matter to the jury.

Nothing else I could have done, was there?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): What does he want?

I do believe he wants to be forgiven.

Who on Earth am I to forgive him?

I don't know.

If you'll excuse us, Judge, Mr. Pinker and I have some points to consider before the afternoon session.

Oh, by all means.

Thank you, my Lord.

Thank you for lunch.

You a gardener, Rumpole?

Oh, I'm afraid not.

I'm a rose man myself.

Of course, I've found it difficult to get around all the pruning since my wife died.

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): He wants me to feel sorry for him.

Come and look at this.

Yes.

That's the garden.

The Mrs. Sam Mcgredys are flowering well, don't you think?

Very nice.

Those are two of my grandchildren.

I've got six now altogether.

That's the budding showjumper.

Yes, I think I summed up Muschamp quite fairly.

Didn't you tell the jury they might well not believe a single word of his evidence?

Well, that was my personal opinion, but they were quite free to come to their own conclusions.

Wouldn't you agree?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): What does he want from me, what crumb of comfort?

So it is your view of the case, Inspector, is it not, that after the most thorough inquiry by the police that Mrs. Postern fired one shot at her husband and only one?

That is absolutely clear, my Lord.

Absolutely clear.

Thank you, Inspector.

Look, I'm Dr. Overton, the pathologist.

I'm an extremely busy man.

Am I to be kept hanging about all the afternoon?

Don't worry, doctor.

We've got the message.

They're ready for you now.

Dr. Overton, have you investigated previous cases of death by gunshot wounds?

I think one.

Only one, I see.

And have you been called before to give evidence in a murder trial?

No, not actually.

Congratulations on your debut.

Thank you.

How was it exactly that you were called upon to conduct the post-mortem examination?

Is not the home office pathologist for the Chester area the highly experienced and very aptly named Dr. Gravely?

Dr. Gravely was away at a conference at Scarborough.

I was called in at short notice.

Ah, and saw your big chance.

His big chance of what, Mr. Rumpole?

Perhaps your big chance of ingratiating yourself with the local police by agreeing with their conclusions.

I did agree with their conclusions, yes.

And with their view that the body of Jonathan Postern had received the impact of one and only one shotgun wound.

DR. OVERTON: That was my conclusion.

From which we might infer that it was the shot from Mrs. Postern's gun which caused his death, either deliberately or by accident.

- Yes.

A shotgun wound consists, does it not, of a large central wound surrounded by an area of scattered shot?

That's true.

And the further away the shot is fired, the larger the area of scatter, and correspondingly, smaller the central wound.

I agree.

I'm glad you do.

Would you look at photograph number 3, please?

Now, you have drawn a circle around the hole that you consider fatal.

That is near the center of the chest in the jury's photograph.

- I see that, yes.

- Mm.

And that is where you consider the fatal shot entered?

Well, I'm sure of it.

Absolutely certain?

(LAUGHING) I-- I have no doubts whatever on the subject, Mr. Rumpole.

How pleasant it must be to be so sure of yourself.

There is another smaller wound just above it, is there not?

Would you care to borrow my glass?

No, I can see perfectly well.

Thank you.

Is that the darker spot on the photograph?

Just show us where you're looking, doctor.

Here, my Lord.

Yes.

It's about 2 o'clock from the pencil circle, members of the jury.

Yes, what did you take that to be?

I took that to be a part of the scatter.

Could it not be the central wound from another shot fired from some distance further away?

I suppose that's a possibility.

MR. RUMPOLE: Oh, indeed.

It wasn't a minute ago, was it?

Just a possibility.

So when you told us that you were absolutely certain that there had been only one shot, you were giving this jury an opinion which was not entirely reliable.

I see no reason to suppose there was more than one shot.

But it is a possibility.

Yes.

And what would turn that possibility into a probability, Dr. Overton?

Well, I suppose if there were some strong additional evidence.

Of which you say there is none?

Not as far as I know.

That is something for the jury to consider, the extent of your knowing.

How many pellets are there in a 20-gauge shotgun cartridge, Dr. Overton?

I would say about an ounce of shot.

I didn't ask you how much it weighed.

I asked you how many pellets there were.

Um-- [clears throat] how-- how many pellets?

Are you hard of hearing, Dr. Overton?

No, not in the least.

Would you force yourself to answer my question?

Yes, well, I think I'd-- I'd have to look that one up.

Look it up?

You didn't think to look it up before you came here to give so-called expert evidence against a woman of unblemished character on a charge of murder?

Then, let us see if you remember this without having to look it up.

When you conducted the post-mortem examination, you found a large number of shot in the deceased's body.

A very large number, indeed.

A very large number, I am obliged to you.

Did you count them?

May I look at my notes?

RUMPOLE: Oh, look at whatever you like, except the inspector in charge of the case.

He's not able to help you now.

Mr. Rumpole.

Oh, as your lordship objected to that observation, I'll withdraw it.

Well, how many pellets were found in the deceased's body, doctor?

478, my Lord.

And there may have been some you missed-- some that missed their target altogether?

There may well have been.

For your information, doctor, and to save you the trouble of looking it up, the average contents of a 20-gauge shotgun cartridge is between 250 and 270 pellets.

Well, I must accept that, of course.

So does not the presence of almost double the number of pellets in the deceased's body suggest to you that there must have been a second shot?

[clears throat] It might do so.

Might it not?

And if Mrs. Postern fired only one shot, as three independent witnesses have testified, might not a second person have fired the other?

Surely that is a conclusion for the jury, Mr. Rumpole.

It is a submission of mine, my Lord, that I consider that to be the only conclusion.

Thank you, Dr. Overton.

Oh, doctor, before you go?

Yes?

If you intend to continue in your present line of work, may I recommend Professor Ackerman's Gunshot Wounds in Forensic Medicine?

It's a handy little volume.

It was quite an easy read for the beginner.

No further questions, my Lord.

Very well.

I think we'll break off there.

At 10:30 tomorrow morning, members of the jury.

Be upstanding.

All you having anything to do with the Queen's justices for the city of Chester may depart hence and give your attendance here tomorrow morning at 10:30 of the clock in the forenoon.

God save the Queen and my lords, the Queen's justices.

Rumpole.

Ah, Fiona.

Your cross-examination of that unfortunate pathologist may have been first class entertainment.

Yes, indeed.

I haven't enjoyed myself so much since I got old Ackerman himself to change his mind about a bloodstain.

Where does it get my sister?

Oh, just possibly off.

Sprod says it was an accident.

Are you suggesting there were two accidents?

No, only one accident.

What are you getting at?

Your sister is not too keen on the truth coming out in this case, is she?

Why don't you come down and ask her?

No, not tonight, Fiona.

Tonight, I am dining at the Chester Arms.

I'm expecting company.

Mr. Rumpole?

Mr. Fishbourne, sit down, why don't you?

Did you have a good dinner?

I had what is called the Chester Arm set meal-- paté Maison in the form of liver ice cream, a steak cut from the nether end of some elderly animal and lightly singed under an X-ray machine, and a cheese board, aptly named.

The cheddar had the flavor and consistency of damp sawdust.

Oh, and the whole sumptuous repast topped off with a bottle of ice cold claret, which made Pomeroy's plonk taste like Chateau Lafite.

What have you got to tell me, Mr. Fishbourne?

You can't get her off, can you?

You tell me.

I mean, I don't see how you can.

She said she did it.

Did she tell you that?

No.

She won't see me.

No, indeed.

But you know why Johno Postern would have wanted to see you, though, don't you?

It wouldn't have been to criticize your riding ability, would it?

No, it wasn't for that.

What she actually said was, I shot him.

It was an accident.

Who else did she think might have shot him, do you suppose?

Who else do you think could have shot him, Mr. Fishbourne?

It couldn't possibly have been me.

Oh, indeed.

Why not?

I wasn't here.

I'd gone up to London quite unexpectedly.

I had a call from our lawyers, and I went up just after lunch.

Any number of people saw me.

Our first bit of luck in this case.

That is a splendid example of what we call in the trade a cast iron alibi.

He couldn't have done it.

He was in London with his lawyers, so you can stop shielding him.

Yes, I remembered seeing your face when he fell at the last fence.

You were very upset.

I thought you were his wife.

But then afterwards, you were laughing at him with the others.

So I knew you were hiding something.

Johno found out, did he?

(CRYING) Such a mess.

What shall I do?

RUMPOLE: Why not try telling the truth?

Sometimes, people win cases doing that.

Look, they can't keep-- oh, sorry.

Look, they can't keep the judge waiting any longer.

Well, what do you say?

Shall we give it a try?

Truth.

The whole truth and nothing but the truth.

RUMPOLE: Mrs. Postern, on the afternoon that your husband died, you quarreled.

What was the quarrel about?

About Maurice Fishbourne.

He is your next door neighbor.

Yes.

Yes.

What did you tell your husband?

I told Jonathan that I loved Maurice, and that if he would divorce me, we hoped to marry.

I had been unhappy with my husband for a long time.

Had he been violent?

Yes, quite often.

RUMPOLE: So that on the afternoon that you quarreled-- He said he'd go over and see Maurice and tell him never to see me again.

He threatened to beat Maurice up.

I knew that Maurice could have a violent temper and that he hated my husband.

I-- I think I said if he went that Maurice might kill him.

Ah, Maurice might kill him.

Had Maurice told you that he might kill your husband?

When he heard how he treated me, yes.

Yeah.

And you had taken those threats seriously.

I knew that Maurice was a very determined man, that he has a strong will.

Yes.

Let us come to the moment when your husband left the house.

He said he'd gone out to cool off.

After a while, I thought he'd gone to Maurice's so I decided to follow him.

I got as far as the track by Figgis's cottage, and I saw Jonathan.

Well, there-- Yes, go on.

Well, there was blood.

I saw that he was dead.

Yes.

I thought that Maurice had done it.

It was just by his wood.

RUMPOLE: And?

I knew that Maurice couldn't get away with it, and that he'd be convicted of murdering Jonathan.

I did not know at that time that he was up in London.

But I suppose I-- I was in a sort of panic.

(QUIETLY) Yes.

So what did you decide to do?

I decided to pretend that I'd shot Jonathan by mistake, in an accident.

I went back to the house and got my shotgun.

And when I got back to the wood, I put in one cartridge, and I fired it.

One shot only.

Yes, only one.

Into your husband's dead body?

Yes.

Now listen, Rumpole, as you are in Chester, surely you could spare a few minutes and go and have a look at the place.

Hilda, I simply haven't got the time.

Well, you must make time!

It's not much to ask.

Members of the jury, contrary to the views of some people, the British criminal trial cannot be compared in any way to a horse race.

You do not get at the result by closing your eyes and sticking a pin into a list of runners.

If you believe that, for whatever reason, Mrs. Postern deliberately shot at her husband with the intention of killing him or doing him serious injury, then you must convict her.

But if you think that the account she gave you might be true-- I say might be true-- then, she is entitled to be acquitted.

There is some support for Mrs. Postern's story, is there not, in the medical evidence?

RUMPOLE (VOICEOVER): I do wonder, have we got Martin Muschamp to thank for the unexpected fairness of the summing up?

So that you have to consider the possibility that Mr. Postern met his death on that woodland track by an accident caused by the man Figgis shooting from his cottage window, and that Mrs. Postern, coming on the body, assumed her lover had been responsible and took extraordinary steps to cover up what she thought had been a crime.

This is not a court of morals, members of the jury.

Neither is it a racecourse.

What we are concerned with is certainty and the truth.

REPORTER (OVER RADIO): And once again, the pound has fallen in the European markets.

At Chester Crown Court, the jury have returned a verdict of not guilty on Mrs. Jennifer Postern, who was charged with the murder of her husband, the honorable Jonathan Postern.

Well, Rumpole, I suppose you think you've done something frightfully clever.

No, Hilda, I think I've done something absolutely brill.

I don't suppose you were brill enough to go and look at that delightful property.

Jennifer Postern, remarkable woman-- she went to the most extraordinary lengths to shield the man she loved.

Fiona's sister?

Yes.

Not very much like Fiona, though, is she?

Rather more beautiful, wouldn't you say?

Much more like that other gorgeous creature down there, Agatha.

Oh, we'll be seeing quite a lot of them when we fix up about this gentleman's lodge arrangement you're always talking about.

They promised to give me shooting lessons.

Shooting lessons?

You, Rumpole?

- Yes.

There'll be lots of time.

Oh, I suppose you'll be kept busy bottling fruit and drying herbs and all that sort of thing.

Bottling fruit?

Yeah, and drying herbs.

Herbs-- you know, Rumpole, I've been thinking.

This flat in the Gloucester Road is very convenient for us, isn't it?

Oh, yes, but-- We can always have days out in the country, can't we?

Well, I suppose that's true, but-- No, no no, no.

Oh, but didn't your daddy always say-- No, Rumpole.

For your sake, I think I've decided against Chester.

Oh, well, Hilda.

It's your decision.

SWMBO.

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